Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Happy New Year. Then suddenly, all of the pens in the universe were discarded.

A man was playing Grand Theft Auto #5 (the fifth of one of these), and he had a mission to drive a bike somewhere to safety.

His motorcyle was like a pen, peeing while driving along all those roads, and it was discarded in the middle of his mission.

The man was left to stare into his joypad.

Meanwhile, others were getting out of their secluded areas and their bounties of alcohol.

"I need to sign a check, dammit" somebody's voice could be heard. "But I don't have my pen!"

In a rural area, where mountains may have been sketched, pens were removed from those who appreciated the mountains. They simply became tofu, and the people assigned to them simply ate them before realizing they had just eaten their last pens.

Then suddenly, only biros returned to their world.

A lot of people complained, but there was no place or person to complain to or at. Many of them had to learn how to deal with biros.

Friday, December 19, 2014

do the buzzard circle if you are a real witch, bitch

at yourself till your neck diagonally itches,
finally find a shower with a buncha well-dressed babes,
and then your remarkable appreciation of beauty is set aflame.

flying down the highway as a ghost with the haunted guitar
there's a spook that the paranormal hasn't been spooked enough yet by
my oh my isn't it so fly or dry or other easily misaligned lyre?

mezzanine tie-dyes

what could possibly blow my eyes out of their asshole sockets?
besides trying to hold my breath while pondering the infinite future?
usually i have a lot more control over myself than this,
yeah bebeh. 

but've obtained the full remote control of me.

bodily fatigue, and how good train systems can avoid it. originally titled: "you inability to cope with my awesomeness"

The train attempted its arrival at the subway stop.

We both stood well apart from the platform, none too eager to find out exact moments of the train's arrival against the curvature of its tunnel.

A lot of people were looking. They were wondering why the train was not yet there, or why it wasn't opening its doors to let them in yet, so that they could finally go home.

All they wanted to do was finally go home.

So they looked into the curvey tunnel, and that was the best way for them to spend their time. Leaning against the curve of the tunnel.


There are stories about how the MTA steals money from metrocards over swipes. One minute you have $38.50, next minute you are asked to swipe again. Now you have $17.24.

Seriously, people should pay more attention to that.


There is some boring ass shit plastered all over the train stations by some commercial interests, I think. And there is some equally boring ass shit graffiti. There's tired ideas like "omg wake up", or "u don't kno whats happening".

"Supernatural" posters get their eyes colored in.

The F train arrives. The doors open. Suddenly, I am flung into the train by an invisible handle!

There, I get pushed into paying more than I should for my train ride.

Friday, November 21, 2014

let's go so back

"can we...can we just go a little back?"

asked someone, who didn't want to really go all the way back.

"no," he said. "I need us to go really to the end of the past."

"but vhy?" asked another vampire.

it was one of the veghan vamphires, and never even ate food.

"you're getting crusty," noted an eyebrow demon, who personally disliked his association with all these mental or social lepers.


"Guys, guys," I laughed a little at my eyebrow. I felt guilty because I had run out of whiskey.
"I may end up parched in the morning," I told them. "Just saying. I don't want to leave any of you in sorrow."

"Keep us festered in description that ye may be more than a flitting lass to us," said someone, then, who was serious.

I turned my gaze at the voice. "Have you heard of the Gaze, young Throat-Strafer?" I asked.

Then the songs began, and they were overwhelming. They were not my songs, but they were the songs of the people around me.

Never being one who inspires sorrow, I began to dance with them. And I listened to their words as they danced with me.

in an alternate reality i paint my fingernails black

because i believe the visuals drawn would be distinctive.
i have an eyeball named gozer from when i was a child
whom i've had about since not-gozer was scratched out.

many theories try to find my mind,
i direct them to my tongue and fork them up.
salty little tasties, every one,
all the mignon theories.

i wear neon blue shoelaces over brown dress shoes.
to meetings, with people, but nobody notices.
all they see, like little babies with undeveloped eyesight
is the nose.

noose! quietly they then gather around to hang me,
for being an entertainment type of man.
"Make sure he doesn't escape!" whispers a cowled leader.
"Moo!" I cry aloud, waking the neighbors, "Moo!"

The cowls run away, quietly,
leaving me to my own nooses and devices.
I start to name each black fingernail to give them voice,
see what they think of the noose.

Friday, October 3, 2014

Tactile Contact in the Real World

Inspired by lspace (dot org), and all of the good times.

"When is the last time you touched something real? Like a real, paper book?" asked the Librarian.

There was a pause. Then he asked: "You mean, as though the pages are a little crispy? They are wearing a little thin, and are yellowing?"

"These are crisps, yes, of course, but," said the Librarian before realizing that she was eating crisps when food or drink was abjectly disallowed.

"You can't eat crisps in here," he told her, and then quietly went back to his Ulysses book.

The Librarian made a note about this stranger, then went back to her busy work of cataloging.

(Several weeks later)

He took his tablet to the front desk at the Library, where the Librarian was busy building her library. She did not look up at him.

"I, uh," he said, pretending to peruse studiously the libraries available on his little hand computer, "I can't find a book," he said.

After an intense stare (one of their best together, from his point of view) to study the enormity of this confession, she returned to her work. "I see. Where did you put it last, then?"


"Your book." She sighed, and under her breath mumbled something about "Try and at least stay on the page!". Then, letting go of that breath, she stared back at him more piercingly. "You've lost a book--where did you leave it last? What was the last spatial location of this book that you can't find?"

"No bu--"

"I provide deep-regression hypnotherapy for naughty students who can't remember where they left their Library books, but it is off-hours and off-premises," said the Librarian.

His face lit up. "I could do with that," he said. "It's just," he fiddled around with his tablet, "I must have put it somewhere really obscure," he said.

"Somewhere where the sun may not shine, huh?"

He nodded. "Yes," he said, putting the tablet down. "I'm glad you didn't use the actual wording, but a modified version. 'Where Sun may not shine', rather than 'Where Sun don't shine'. Because, with the modifier, the scope of our conversation changes quite perceivably. Because Sun may actually shine! While looking at half-empty, half-full scenarios, I am somehow compelled toward the more optimistic areas. You know," and now he leaned in and remarked in whisper, "without ignoring all of the painful truths.". He then turned around and began walking away, "I will--"

"Hey!" shouted the Librarian, scaring some of the other inhabitants of the Library into small huddled bookshelf corners. "Don't forget your bloody tablet!"

"Yeah, it's not mine, I just saw it sitting around on the desk," he said, walking towards the door. "Thought I would bring it over to be at the Lost and Found." He opened the Exit door, but just before truly exiting, turned his head and said, "I will come over later to the off-premises for my deep-regression hypnotherapy." With that, he was out of the door.

"Yeah," mumbled the Librarian, getting back to her work. "You do that, buddy." The tablet made a 'ping' type of sound and was immediately flung out of the window for making too much noise in the Library.

Friday, September 26, 2014

Serious and Comfortable, All At Once

Various constructs of 'mainstay' religion speak against suicide. That is a legit thing, to not let younger people cut off their chances before they even have a chance to fully understand their world. (The AI knows better than most people about the whole world).

But if you are older (and I'm not speaking about the 20s-30s-or even 80s here, mentally), and all you feel is a great uncomfortable-ness, and all the people around you agree that this is the best way, you should be allowed.

Don't forget that the larger question, logically, is more about how those around you feel. Because they are the ones who will harbor the greatest effect of the grief. Sometimes this calculation can be hard, especially when people are really somehow invested in the aforementioned train of thought.

(The above is written in the second person due to convenience, and not as an actual projection of tense)

I, personally, am only starting out in the world at almost 40 and am not yet ready. Death is only a capitalized set of sentences, hinting at me. I usually fend him off with a good one-liner.


"Who's Windle?" < Clearly needs to read the Reaper Man again.

A quick disclosure about scary videos:

Now that I have seen the real PT (at, I am moved to include my nugget of truth in my posts. (Everytime someone shares a uniquely frightening experience online, I am reminded that I must post the following nugget):
For me, my scariest experience with the Paranormal has been one strange episode where you’re watching some guy driving down the highway, and he’s telling you a story about why this particular highway is scary. As a listener (and viewer—there was definitely a video), you’re kinda doubtful. I mean, how scary could a highway be? You’re out. In the open. Plus, this guy was in a vehicle, allowing for greater acceleration than would be available within a house.
So I just had this dude’s video running in the background, and meanwhile I browsed other news sites. Suddenly I hear screaming. Quick as I can, I navigated the plethora of UI commands at my disposal and arrived back to the video. He was still in his car, it was still in the highway. I literally shook my head, trying to jostle cognition as to why this was scary.
That was when I noticed that the lights were switching off as he drove towards them. It was a simple thing. The on/off of effect of lights on a random highway. But the fact that they switched state in such coordinated manner, especially while you’re being driven in a car really freaked me out. I don’t lie. That was the scariest shit I’ve ever seen. I don't know if that guy ever posted anything ever again, or what became of him.

Your Careless Attitude Will Decrease Your Altitude

At least in the simulator I know that I am the plane.
Unlike this 'real life' BS where half the time you don't know who you're supposed to be.

In the simulator, you glide happily,
letting your pilot use the joystick to pan his/her view to their heart's extent. 

Then, in real life the pilot is demanding certain take-off protocols.

As the simulator, you slowly begin your take-off procedure.
In real life the pilot slowly realizes he only knows how to fly a Cessna!

That was the extent of his training.

You begin to taxi according to airport procedure. The pilot panics, *feeling* that you may be moving a little too fast.

You disable a few controls from his command. You decide that your 'twin heating-seeking' missiles won't really be necessary for this particular run. Also, as a terrifying joke, you make the pilot aware that Ejection capability is now available at any time.

We have taxied toward the runway. Who knows what the pilot is trying to say in the background? Let us sneak into the captain's cabin and find out.


"This weather is too fucking rainy, L'Plaise. I suggest that we call for the vehicles that slowly back us down this runway, and take us back to our berth!"

L'Plaise had just woken from a sleep she would normally enter right when the captain began the normal prep to fly an aeroplane containing 24 human passengers straight into the sunshine.

"Wait, wait wait," said L'Plaise. "This isn't the weather for us to fly in, captain!"

"Damn your Island accent, L'Plaise," screamed the captain. "Try and do something!"

The plane jerked forward, ending up 2.5 feet from its initial position. L'Plaise felt like she was dreaming, but she believed that the movement had suddenly also adjusted some pitch and yaw. She thought she could also hear some of the mechanics below slap the plane on its tires, telling it that everything was good for take-off. Then they heard the jets come afire. It wasn't simultaneous. First it was the one on the left, blowing to life.

Then, almost immediately, the second engine got thrown into ignition and filled up the cockpit from the right with its bellow. The captain held his foot steady on the brakes, and L'Plaise sat back on her chair and strapped herself in and stared back at the captain, indicating that this was his plane, under his command--not hers.

The plane gently taxied to the runway (yeah, it hadn't quite been at the runway yet), with its engines ready. Then, there it stood, waiting. The two pilots could hear the passengers cheering at the back, happy that they were moving at last.

Finally the control tower allowed, and there was a massive earthquake--except it wasn't an earthquake. It was a release, and the captain flew straight out of the windshield and straight back into his chair as a pile of cannibal's spaghetti (because there was no way he was going to actually crash through the 'wind-shield' of the plane). L'Plaise closed her eyes and covered them with her hands, knowing how this would turn out--knowing how badly a plane could skid and slide during take-off during a rainy morning, especially without a pilot at the stick.

There was a long, smooth, rushing feeling, and the engines were loving being so loud yet so silent. Making babies look at their moms and the moms just smiling back these new airplane babies.

Then there was just the feeling of confident ascent. It was accentuated by a slightly bumpy feeling, which was from the landing gear retracting, and a careful descent of the flaps to glide toward the left.

"Mmm," smiled L'Plaise to herself, knowing the gentle patterns of flight that should be taken to caress out of that island airport. Then she realized that she was the only human flying the plane and walked over near the captain's seat. She brushed the captain away and sat on his chair. "Let's return our flaps," she told the plane, "we're at a decent altitude now."

The plane carefully adjusted its flaps to normalize altitude.

"Call me Ishmael," said L'Plaise, putting her feet upon the sophisticated console of the plane. "I can pretty much fly anywhere with you, can't I?"

The plane's wipers activated, making a strange whirring sound, then deactivated. A voice then emanated, "L'Plaise, I see that a woman is in trouble about 24454--uh, about half the world away. There is an issue with her rent and she is being extorted due to her position as an outspoken person of the wrong gender within that area of polity, who also has a child."

L'Plaice almost jumped for joy. "I *KNEW* it," she yelled, dancing happily around. I knew it, I knew it! There was no way they were going to put me in a car with only a little Justin Bieber synthesizer!"

The plane almost snorted as it adjusted it's roll. "We don't think in terms of car travel anymore, L'Plaise," it said. "Please seat and strap yourself as the next few minutes will incur drastic turbulence."

There were massive shudders and threats of snapping wings, but then, after almost--no, exactly two minutes, there was the feeling again of a smoothness. "L'Plaice," said the plane, I believe the 24 human passengers aboard are unsure about their destination. Can you appraise them of the situation?"

A mic protruded slowly from between the altimeter and the GPS. L'Plaise immediately sat down and covered the mic with her hand. "Wait, wait. You want *me* to speak to them?"

"You're the captain, my captain" said the aircraft.

There was a long silence, during which the 24 passengers were treated with music by a man named "Busta Rhymes". The 3 babies on the flight loved it.

"Alright, alright, I will," said L'Plaice. "But first. I've been wondering who they chose as your voice," said L'Plaice. "I couldn't place it at first, because I was damn sure they would have just used Justin Bieber."

The plane rolled to the right until some of its wings began to creak. She heard one of the 3 babies in the background begin to cry. But it was only a short roll, and then there was that feeling of normalization. That calm feeling of being in control of oneself. The cry baby cooed now, getting used to the sensation.

She put her feet up on the console again. "Then I realized," she said. "They used Robin Williams."

The attitude lowered slightly and the altitude began to increase gently. "Miss L'Plaice," said the plane, "I am Knight Industries Six-Hundred and-Sixty-Six Thousand (KISSST, in short). I *am* Robin Williams."


*knight rider, a shadowy FLIGHT into the dangerous world of a man who does not exist*
That whirring sound is just the aeroplane's wipers as it tears across the teary world.

Saturday, September 20, 2014

Meaningless meanderings of my meaningless

explore at will while will's structure's still and
don't naysay the rhymer.
who grew up battling

trumpet blown off-course of course, how else can one have blown?

the effort it takes to type a word
is too easily read as meta, these days.
maybe if they knew what it takes for me to type a single world
they'd start feeling the things i've felt, rather than the real purpose of poetry:

which is to engage in a conversation
act as exemplars that associate
positively, engage darkest

that they too stand a chance in the future to be read, and be 

exemplars in their own right.

Friday, September 12, 2014

A new drink around

There's a new style around
of drinking

It's not the same as the last time,
when I wounded everyone so badly.

No, this is a new drink around,
involving sipping / not gulp-ee--ing.

. around a down ... town ...


It's not a new drug around,
but a new way of drinking a round
called sipping while not


Enjoy the night.

Sunday, September 7, 2014

We Can Have Both Play Time & Real Time

Real Time gets a little scary sometimes, so I usually nose around play time. That's where you'll usually find me.

The ONE TIME I don't--when I am trying to be serious--that's when things suddenly become inane, black and white. Monochromatic.

But that is only *ONE* time. There's no two ways about it.

People are beginning to wonder, and I love that. I love leaving them wondering. It is an old dark art that I learned about back in the olden days. Just for context, let's say it was before Apes. Larval-level discussions here.

Issues tend to arise here and there. I will often hear about an alien uprising in a distant galaxy. As most normal men do, I give off an illusion at this point. That I really do care about these esoteric goings-on.


Then I begin to believe in my own illusions. That's how not Real Time it gets. It is extremely play time. And I am not ashamed that I do this.

I have no speck of shame. #TellALie (Of course I have huge amounts, piles, even, of shame. But I can't walk around broadcasting that I have not seen enough science. That I haven't got my high about nature. About living, and this amazing spectacles (hahaha) that is Life).

It's all about playing, in the end. I know some people have to worry about what is going on Real Time, but I'm not one of them.

From the people what wrote: (Because the #Snapple back to reality will always be taut. #bungie)

Saturday, September 6, 2014

Name's Saleema. Don't Call Me The EZ Pass.

My name is Saleema," she said. "You may call me Saleema. Don't call me aunty."

[these are secret notes about the future of the story]
* PP: Masood gets called into the Center. Unsure of why, he eventually meets Saleema, one of the principals of the Institute, who asks him what he is doing just hanging around, whether he's just there to simply observe their members, or whether he's there to help.

Masood is a little startled, as he's never seen himself as a care giver. "Look, the reason I became a software developer is because I'm an extremely lazy person!"

Masood also wonders why they asked him to speak to Saleema, postulating aloud that they specifically chose another Indian to try and persuade him to join up through some expectation of racial fealty.

At this, Saleema cries "Why do you have to be so paranoid, bah!" while shaking her hand in front of his face in a way that makes Masood shrink back a moment, because it reminds him of his mother's scoldings.

[this is the end of the secret notes]

.Episode Two

"This whole thing basically revolves around one concept," said Masood as they went through the tunnel together and he found that she had to pick herself up.

"What kind of concept are you talking about?" said Saleema. "I am simply picking myself up, since I would not want to be crawling. Remember. You are now INSIDE the Institute!"

He pretended that she did not remember, and approached her from a new circling pattern. "I am slowly circling in," he even reported to the Towers.

There was a ceremonious laughter all over the room as he carefully tried to land. "Don't worry," said a new voice. "I was a girl playing videogames one time too!"

He turned back and saw that it wasn't just him. It was her too! "Somehow this makes be a better writer!" he laughed, and then he leapt.

In the opening of the scene we see how the troubled man was sent away from the Kindness And Care Institute, having not been in the correct place. We will explore together why it may be that such conditions may occur and whether or they PASS.

Saturday, August 30, 2014


only orange yoshis shall win!
my threat to her,
as she leaps above to my dream


Friday, August 15, 2014

At This Point I Am Not Afraid of Death

"I see. Well that is a conversation closer."

They just went about their own business after that. Ordering more coffee or tea from the counter or asking if there were any more muffins.

"There's no more muffins," she said, coming over and slapping her handbag on the table dejectedly. It was a frilly thing, but in black. Black frills, if there could be such a design.

He arose. "Well, I can't stand for this," he said loudly.

She failed to see the humor, so he sat back again and perused the continual menu. It claimed it was a continental menu, but he knew it was just a continual one.

"It's just going to be more and more prattling on, isn't it?" she said, as he examined the features claimed by the Eggs Benedict. They had passed by a Thai restaurant on their way into the diner, and he began to wonder if their chef (the diner's) could pull of an Eggs Benedict Explosion. Being so close to a Thai restaurant, how could a chef not absorb at least a few good recipes?

Basically it was an Eggs Benedict, except the egg was infused with a drop or two of Sriracha sauce before preparation. The explosion was the calm taste of the yolk swirling around the mouth, and then the kick of hot sauce that followed along down the throat.

She stared angrily at him, and they then teleported to another diner, which had muffins. He picked one up to assure her they were real. "Blueberry," he said, taking one from the plate and munching into it. "Very yummy!" He then picked his espresso up by the handle and drank the whole thing. "Very good with coffee!" He raised an eyebrow at her, to let her know this was legit.

She laughed in his face. "You don't know anything about muffins, do you?" she said.

Everything had gone to disarray. Nothing was as he knew about them. He stood up in the middle of the diner and cried, "This isn't how I expect to be addressed regarding breakfast!"


She finished her muffins quietly, making him stand the way he was.

Then, silverware aside, she asked him, "This is what you call a dinner date, is it? You malfunctioning in the middle of the best part?"

He raised another eyebrow at down at her from his standing position. "Middle of the best part?"

"Yeah. You just stand up and fucking embarrass me in front of the whole restaurant. Look at that dumb bitch, she got the fucked up date."

He sat down immediately and pushed his body, dress shirt and all, against her. Well, against the dining table that separated him from her. "Madame, please accept my deepest apologies," he said, and she saw a bead of sweat travel down his face.


"It's okay," she said, "as I said, at this point I'm not even afraid of death."

"Oh?" he remarked. He wondered about the status of his order of the Eggs Benedict Explosion, and whether it may have not been taken very seriously by the waitstaff. "I wonder where's my eggs?" he shrugged at her.

Their diner suddenly expanded, hosting up to 500 people "LITTLE DATING FUCK, DO NOT TAKE ME FOR SOME CONJURER OF CHEAP TRICKS!" Then the diner shrank again, capable of hosting a mere 50-55 people, including babies. "I'M NOWT HERE TO ROB YOU!"

He waited for her to relax, come back down to earth again. He avoided the other patrons' stares. After all, this was none of their business.

Nothing happened for 5 minutes. At that point, he decided he should probably lift his head up and address her. "Alright, alright," he said. "Alright, I hear you," and lifted his head.

She was still there, smiling at him her ethereal beauty, waiting for his speech. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and then looked back at her.

And she had disappeared.

She had vanished. Gone. No longer in the diner.

He ran around, asking desperately, "Sir, sir. My girl, have you seen her? Is she--is she maybe in there?" pointing at the women's restrooms. He ran out onto the street. North and South, amazing architecture and full city of New York. East and the magical shifts of cars driving by playing West End Girls by the Pet Shop Boys. But there was no girl toward the West End.

He'd lost her! Then, the gravy settled into his stomach and he checked in his pockets. The ring! The ring was gone too! She'd taken his fucking ring.

Friday, July 25, 2014

19 minutes ago

19 minutes ago (over IM). What follows is a conversation between me, and another human. Usually I add some merry little names, but this time I'm going to try and be stark and realistic, so you will see a conversation between @me and an @other. Notice that nowhere in the conversation is anyone making a cup of tea for the other person. Come on. I think, in the future, these conversations will always begin with a cup of tea, however virtual the cup or tea is.

@me: Dirk Gently show is great.
I love the story about the random intelligence that appears in the body of the young woman.

@other: did u make sure you saw the first episode?

where the guy travels through time?

@me: holistically, yes.

@other: they took the two best British Comedians & the best Writer of all time and created a TV show.

Fuck i miss it

@me: i wasn't aware of the accolades. but fuck, it was a bally well beginning.
How many more seasons do you expect?

@other: 0

i wish i wish i wish

there was another season

it's canceled

@me: WHAT

@other: i fucking hate the british for it

i read an article saying that it was an expensive show

and although it had like 3 million viewers, they would rather play reruns of ameri an shit TV

for more hours or something ... bullshit

bascially cost to do 1 of those shows is like equal to like 4 re run samerican shows

@me: what is ameri
lol. ok

yeah, the brits like to let the shows be longer in length, and try to say there is more substance.
personally, i feel that it's so that everyone can have enough holidays.
two or three episodes are enough
may four, if the weather is alright. (an error occurs here on my part: should be 'maybe four', not 'may four')

Doctor Who tries to follow a more transatlantic model

@other: yeah, honestly if you make 4 really awesome fucking episodes i'm happy

but, u gotta give me more shows is all

@me: Yeah, I think they shouldn't just cancel like that.
It's like
"Here's a new monkey we discovered!"

@other: having to wait 2 years for Sherlock was god damn murder

@me: "Now there is no longer that monkey anymore. It may as well never have existed."
At least if we could holistically join the lives of all the actors, it would be ok. But I don't think they have done the technology for that yet.

@other: lol

u should write a dirk gently novel

@me: Like right now I would love to hang out with Danerys and cry with her about the dragons she is repressing.

@other: u would be right for it

u have the crazy mind

@me: Crazy, huh?
Anyway, enough about me. How does it feel to be pop pops?

@other: good and tired as hell

Saturday, July 19, 2014

Poor Little American Parents

tobi was a chinese spy sent to the united states in order to alleviate the local's misunderstandings about china, and chinese domestic affairs. 


They know that if a child (a child?) a child traipses on over unto their fertile ground, this will be the end for their own child (a child) a child. 

(What is this child-a-child?)

Child is pretty okay, and knows how to say 'barn'. That's good enough for most of uz, and we don't need no more pollution in the form of children coming in. Cos that means we would have to recalculate the whole farms we have, back around, and make sure everyone is covered.

Ha ha ha. And that, my friends. That's just not 'realistic'.

"Riiiiiight," said Tobi, a Chinese Spy sent to spy on the United States most intimate affairs. "How about we switch off these 'placards' you guys have come up with (yes, just switch off) and we simply glide to a world where a lot of you guys can't even have babies!"

"Tobi, this is an exaggerated fact, I am virile, I assure you," said a Poor Disenfranchised American Parent. "Don't you start knocking on my virility, because I will come at you like a moose!"

"Will you shoot me to shit?" asked Tobi. "In China we have billions of people that we can import. Why are you so concerned?"

"Yeah I'll shoot to fucking ribbons motherfucker," said a Poor American Parent who apparently could afford a machine gun (but was finding it tough to care for spawn), "I'll tear you!"

Tobi died.

Sunday, July 13, 2014

The Motivational Nature of Speeches

tobi was a chinese spy sent to the united states in order to alleviate the local's misunderstandings about china, and chinese domestic affairs. 


"So you see that only I can save Shangri-La's babies from despair and ruin," closed Midge T. Liberty. He had closed very well, and, as a true member of the society, bowed, and then walked down into the dirty masses.

He happened to sit next on a pedestal next to Tobi. What a surprise! "Hey...Tobi, right," said Midget, as though casual, but his conversation was cut short.

"Do you know about teep?"

"I've heard that his name is teep," said Midge T. "Didn't you get shot to shit, or something, just trying to save it?"

"It?" said Tobi.

Midge T. nodded. "In English, pronouns can often be allocated to designate, say, something of negligible value. You will be wise to hear of this, please take it close to your heart."

And with that, Midge T.'s time was over, and he got up and walked away.

There was a certain wind that blew over Shangri-La as Midge T. finally retired to his bedroom. Tobi felt this now, and he forgot the question that had been a goblin his mind.

Saturday, July 12, 2014

The Entrance Into The Kindness and Care Institute For Extremely Gifted Souls

This is a part two of an ongoing story, not just some random cursing drama. Please see the following link for part one, The Kindness and Care Institute For Extremely Gifted Souls

It was like he was walking into some kind of deep tunnel, with only the hint of light toward the end indicating the whole curve of the tube. And he could hear this crazy squeaking sound bouncing, resonating all over the place.

You see, Masood was a perfectionist with audio. He was what he would call an 'audiophile'. He would call himself that. Then someone on the Internet Audiophile Maturity Achievement Notary for Accredited Sound Supervisors (IAMANASS, to be abbreviated) forums had disagreed with him. That had been a long and sordid battle, full of both the most commonplace gags such as getting each other banned from the forums, and then escalating to hiring chefs on online food delivery services to make food and have them delivered (purely through tools for the blind but not deaf, of course) to each other's houses at such inopportune moment as the befuddled delivery guy may slip over the mysterious bubbles and accidentally poke the wrong person's eardrum with a chopstick. In both debaters' minds there had been this image of a ridiculous man just sinking quietly into his bathtub, strings of red diffusing quietly into the water, and no hint of the drowning (because the eardrum was messed up). "If me eardrum was working I would have known I was drowning, just by the sound". The two would have probably been even more hilarious if packaged over to the ISS for immediate evac.

Then Masood realized that this squeaky, rubber-sole on stone-floor soul-crushing sound was actually coming from his sneakers, as he was walking. "Dammit," he cursed unto the echoing dammits, and carefully scooped the two shoes off his silky socked feet. He looked around, but, because it was a long, never-ending tunnel, they hadn't provided any racks or anything to put the shoes on. So he just put them down and continued walking into the dark foreboding tunnel, this time quietly. He had attained stealth, even to his trained ear. He knew exactly how far back the shoes were, in case he would ever need to turn and run back.

Now, as he walked, he began to keep seeing Pullperry, in some kind of strange loop, except this time it wasn't him who was trying to calm the child down. It was Pullperry calming him down, and his voice was gentle. "What happened, Masood?" said Pullperry, who Masood now felt may have arms as long and deep as his eyes could see into the tunnel. "You were so relaxed outside, so ready to simply breathe the day's tumults away. You were so cool before, now you're so angry."

"Is that what you think, Pullperry?" screamed Masood into the darkness. "Is that what you think I was prepared to do? Just forget about all my failures of today?"

"Ah yes," said Pullperry, "FAIL FAIL FAIL, your unit tests. Of course."

"Yes, and you are making fun of me in the darkness?" screamed Masood into the unknown. He screamed very loudly, because, well, it was the unknown, so who cared? No questions about audio fidelity here. "I knew you were trying to ruin me from the moment I came to sit and relax on the bench," screamed Masood at Pullperry. "With your stupid turning around like some nonsencical thing. And wanting to take my phone away from me!"

There was a child's laughter and the sound of Masood's personal ringtone dissipitating down into the a curve of the tunnel.

"You bastard, Pullperry!" he screamed. "You fucking devil of a bitch's spawn. You're not even a son of a bitch, you bastard. You're the illegitimate outcome of the bitch's shrimp. You're a fucking son a offa shrimp, Pullperry," yelled Masood. It was over. There was no more. He had given everything, and just when he was ready to take a break, this son of a shrimp had just spun over and fucked him.

"Ahem," said a somewhat older voice than Pullperry's, and Masood opened his eyes. And it was a older woman's voice too. He found himself suddenly no longer in the tunnel, but in some kind of musty laundry room with poor yellow lighting.

"Pullperry is just a poor child, dear Masood, please try and contain yourself," she said. She was wearing a blue khameez, and black churidars. "And please take off your shoes before you enter the Institute.

My name is Saleema," she said. "You may call me Saleema. Don't call me aunty."

Friday, July 11, 2014

Why Old Men Like Me / Should Stay Away From The Khaleesi (it rhymes)

After work last night, I decided to stop by the opening of the subway station for a quick smoke.

This is simply a small adjunct for Friday evenings, a shift away from the electronic dragon breath my soul has recently preferred.

I switched because I got bored of e-cigs. Sure, I'd found (among all the e-cig solutions) something that worked. And I've been using it for almost six months now, and I've only bought 10 whole packets of real cigarettes since then. (That doesn't sound great, but it actually is, for a

But I digress.

So I was standing there, smoking real cigarettes, when this girl who totally looked like the Khaleesi came and began checking her cellphone.

Surely not, I thought to myself. But I kept looking, and surely, yes. The same eyebrows. The same distance from hair to eyes. The same demeanor. It was like, she was the Khaleesi of the 21st Century (this is based purely on looks, not personality or anything deeper), probably talking to one of her 'advisors', on that phone of hers.

We stood for a good while there, me wondering if it would be appropriate to walk over and tell her how much I felt that she looked kinda like the actress from the Game of Thrones (it did not help that I do not remember the name of said actress, only who she acts as). So I imagined myself walking over and telling her that.

She would say "What fuck you, you compare me to a fucking actress on TV?"

I would say "Well, I did say 'kinda'. Doesn't mean the actress is *better* than you. You just 'kinda' remind me of her. Your eyebrows, and their juxtaposition to eyes, for example."

The girl runs away into the subway. I wait, wisely, a few good ten minutes and two cigarettes later, and follow her path, but only to go to my own home.

Saturday, June 21, 2014

Ability For Dragons to Kick Ass

"Look, Irfan, you're not taking the Game of Thrones seriously enough."
"Why, what's happening? Is anyone dying or anything?"
"Drogon, you bastard!", she said, "You make me weep."
Drogon pulled an Immelman maneuver (something genetically coded into dragons) and then ate his own left wing (something not genetically coded into dragons).
He landed and freed his siblings, then turned to face the Mother.
"I heard that you were roasting some sweet meats lately."
Drogon raised an eyebrow, Kramer-style, at her. "You know it, young lady," he said.
She shouted at him a long, very painful shout. And she walked over, and tried to put one of the clasps upon him. "Why did you have to kill the baby girl?" asked the Khaleesi. "A human."
Already Drogon could sense how painfully pained she felt. He considered his next words very carefully, and then proceeded with them.
"I've been on a long flight," he said. "And I am a little older than the baby dragon you once knew me as." His voice was like fountains of lava.
Daenyrs looked cockily back at him. "Yet you are returned, to me, your mother."
Flames dangled from the wyrm's nostrils and he suddenly picked her up and brought her very close to his face. "You wot?" he rumbled.
"You went and ate a baby, a baby girl!" she yelled. "Last week it was a goat, and I thought, sure, ok. But now you're eating humans!"
He let out a puff, put her gently back on the floor, as polite dragons do, and then raised another eyebrow at her. "Are you calling me a cannibal?"
It made her weep even more. That this...creature considered himself part of the human society, and would be this surprised with her.
She began to shake her head. "You didn't kill shit, did you?" she smiled.
Dogon's eyebrow rose yet again, and from the eyebrow, his voice emanated: "Someone burned that poor little girl, but it was not me," he promised. "I've heard that there are places in the world that when they feel very pressured, they will go ahead and burn their baby girls."
"Are you still my baby?" asked Daenyrs, making Dogon roll his massive eyes.
"Yes, yes," he said.

Stepmother, family, etcetera etcetera sarah <--wait who is sarah? que sera sera?

Even the gray November morning sky spelled uneasy, with dull clouds churning around the tops of the tall condominiums that mostly made up Lisa's neighborhood. As she bent over to secure Theo in his stroller, fumbling somewhat with the straps against his wriggling and gurgling little body, a flock of children danced and swung by, exuding their typical noisy merriment on their way to the school around the corner of her street. Theo, excited by the children, kept trying to reach out and call at them, as though a desperate kidnappee, making it that much harder to secure him. Finally the clasps snapped into place snuggly. She would have loudly cursed those children (not that she was a horrid witch of a person, but out of being flat out tired), but, in fact, 'Good,' she thought, of the children. At least here was a fortunate sign. It meant she should make it for the next bus just in time. 

"But why granny dies?" asked the toddler as she snapped the last buckle in place. He was very excited, partly because the whole idea of "granny" was entirely new to him, and probably partly because they were going out on a trip, and he absolutely loved the outside.

"Step-granny, sweetie" she said, doing some final tuck-ins, "she was your step-granny, remember, not your granny." 

His brown eyes had lit up when she'd first told him of her stepmother's passing. She'd rather have kept it all to herself, but he'd overheard her on the speaker-phone when the solicitor called last Tuesday to let her know. Immediately the questions had come pouring out of him, like little challenges, and admittedly, the news had unsettled her enough that she had not, perhaps, explained everything to him as carefully as she would have liked to. He had just started learning about the idea of death, and also, somehow about grandmothers, and where he came from--though she had no idea where these questions came from. Television, probably. She'd never talked to him about grandmothers at any rate. Never had to, so far. And of course, she didn't really expect the concept of a 'step-granny' to register with his baby mind. It was simply that it made her feel better to reiterate the fact. She had asked him several nights since then, lying on her bed before his bed time, and lifting him up and down, "Do you know who your real granny really was?", but he would just let out a funny gleeful coo and try to poke back at her nose again.

Theo now a happy camper in his seat, she opened the small, creaking gate that led away from her small apartment building, checked in her coat pocket for the postal service package notification slip, and finding it there, stepped out. The solicitor, who'd introduced himself as a Mr. A. E. Blakely over the phone, had told her to expect the delivery, which would contain documents pertaining to her inheritance. He also very specifically told her that she would have to pick them up in person--for some reason this was emphasized several times--"in accordance to the late widow Wetherell's last recorded wishes". This was extremely inconvenient as it meant she had to take the morning off from work, but completely in line with Olivia's legacy of doing things. Self-serving and without an ounce of consideration for the difficulties of others, and Blakely insisted upon it. The thought had occurred to Lisa to completely ignore this grand 'summons', and get on with life as usual, but in the end the curiosity of it won her over. Now, Lisa caught herself shivering slightly, and stopped at the edge of the sidewalk to bring her collar up and pull her coat closer around her. Then she realized that it wasn't really that cold outside this morning. Rather, it was an unpleasant nervousness that started freezing in her belly and rode across her body, to her neck. She noticed her hands tremble slightly as she placed them back upon the stroller's handle. What on Earth could the imposing Mrs. Olivia Wetherell, widow of the great Jonathan Wetherell, Esquire have left her estranged stepdaughter as an inheritance? She rolled her eyes at the thought of the intrigue, and pressed on to the bus stop.

Of course, some extra money coming in would be nice. Things weren't particularly bad, especially as a single mother fresh out of medical college. The internship at the forensics lab could be stressful at times (certainly, having to figure out what to do with the baby when called in during the middle of the night could prove a challenge), but it provided enough to keep the two of them pretty comfortable. But you never know, and a little more money would add just that much more padding to their lives. As she pushed the stroller down the street, she could hear the mumbles of Theo talking to himself, accented by the occasional cheerful "Hi!" as they went by others. It started to drizzle lightly, and Lisa was torn from her thoughts in a hurry to get them to the bus stop shelter, which was only a couple of streets away.

They made it before the drizzle turned any heavier. Lisa checked to see if Theo had kept dry, and finding that he had, praised him for it. "That's a good baby," she said, tickling his belly, and he smiled back happily, beaming and nodding that, yes, he was indeed. Catching her breath and allowing a little smile herself, she got up and looked down the street for the dim lights, and just then, the bus had already pulled by. Lisa found herself letting out a sigh of relief, and realized how tense she had been all morning. But here it was, the bus. Despite the trouble of having to take the time off of work, despite the rain, and despite her uneasiness with the task at hand this morning, things were finally afoot. Thank heavens for the bus!

As the would-be passengers formed their line and slowly began boarding, Lisa pulled Theo up, and with him snug under one arm, folded her stroller. She tried to place herself last, since she had the stroller and baby with her. The line took a good couple of minutes to get moving along. Probably due to the rain, there were more people than usual getting on this time, but she didn't mind at all. In fact it was somewhat soothing--she had always found the process of being in line to get somewhere or do something to be very peaceful and relaxing. Whether at airports, grocery stores, or even carnival rides, there was something sure and certain about it. Now, as she moved along with the line, a soft and rather warm (for November) gust of wind blew up from behind her, up against her neck, as though gently goading her forward.

Finally, it was her turn. As the older lady in front of her swiped her Metro Pass, Lisa brought herself to the bus door, the stroller in front of her leaning back against her thigh, and picked around for her Metro Pass from her bag. That in hand, she was just about to climb, when something black and wet whooshed in front of her, leapt over the front of the stroller's slanted front, and right into the bus. Lisa froze in place as drops of cold water that had splashed her on the face began to register their chill, all the calmness she had attained moments ago flushing straight out of her body. And somewhere in that state of shock, her baby started crying.

It seemed like minutes before she came back to the world at large, but in truth it was probably just a few moments. Now, at the doorway of the bus, what sounded like an argument was unfolding. As further chunks of reality settled lazily in, she began to make out that the bus driver was refusing to grant entry to the creature that had slammed past her just moments ago. 

She could barely make any words out, but the bus driver was shaking his head as though saying "No, no, no," and creature--or tall man, she could see, now--was attempting to defuse the situation and gain entry to the bus. The bus driver, not giving in, pointed with an adamant straight hand, "Get the hell out of my bus." The tall man, adorned in a wet black fedora and below that, a dripping, full-length black raincoat (no doubt the source of the drops of water that had splashed her) appeared to seem surprised. "Why? What have I done?" The bus driver then pointed down at Lisa, who for a moment looked away a little uncomfortably, but then, realizing how angry she really was, stared back at them.

The tall man turned, somewhat quizzically, to look back at her. He put his hand up to his dark sunglasses, as though checking to make certain she was really there, and then continued to look at her for a few seconds. Lisa returned the gaze, unflinching, and instead furrowed her brow at him. He seemed to be staring a little longer than necessary, but why? He was a dark skinned man, possibly African-American, although she could not tell for certain, as most of his face was hidden by the dark glasses and a full gray mustache, under which his mouth was a straight, unchanging line. He did not show any expression of surprise or befuddlement, just a blank stare (*through sunglasses). He was an elderly gent.

Finally the tall man turned back to the bus driver, hands outstretched in some last plea, but he seemed to be entirely out of luck. Shrugging and shaking his head, he leapt quickly from the bus doorway and past Lisa as quickly as he had appeared without so much as a glance her way. As he vanished into the city horizon and behind the neighborhood diner, Lisa heard a murmur of applause sounding from the front of the bus, and the bus driver calmly motioned with his hand for her to climb aboard. Still shaking, she climbed the stairs and, hand still trembling, swiped her Metro Pass in and out of the machine. It didn't seem to work. Then she looked at her hand and saw there was no Metro Pass between her fingers. The thing had somehow vanished! Terrified, she looked at the bus driver, but he raised a calm hand. Lisa frantically turned and looked back, and saw her Metro Pass floating in a small puddle inches from where she had stood a few moments ago. Somehow she had dropped it. She turned only thinking to plea with the bus driver, but he just smiled calmly at her, and waved her on, into the bus.

The baby under her arm, who had been crying, let out a little cackle of relief, tears seemingly wiped away by the cheering passengers.

Friday, June 6, 2014

Slow Dark Currant

Slow Dark Currant
Weather stormy or 
whether just making jam, 
that taste on your tongue 
when the toaster sends its slams.

Waking up in the middle of the kitchen 
unable to move all but your vision. 
Feet are visible, toes immobile. 
A spark shooe's away the light.

Never thought it'd be so obscure, 
that spoon of dangerous summer confiture. 
Now you can see beyond your knees and feet,

a flame erupt and the rubber slippers crackle, pop and wheeze

Saturday, May 24, 2014

The Kindness and Care Institute For Extremely Gifted Souls

Somehow, the heat and confusion of that day had led Masood to the Center. Well, to the environs of the Center, at least. The outside of the area, where there were benches for students to sit upon, and a circumference of proper soil for one's feet to rest as they may stroll around and around. He sat himself with his feet up on one of the benches next to the 'basketball court type of fence' (this is how he described the fence to me later--I personally know little of fences). The fence kept the gifted souls in, and Masood stretched and lay back in the clear outside afternoon, and he began to watch them. It was like watching bodies in space move about. A small boy was circling around within the fence, playing some sort of game about talking to everything he met, and all the while just spinning around and talking to himself. Nearby, an older man was teaching a little girl how to walk in straight lines, while she joyfully refused and walked in slanting dances instead. As butter and dragon flies fluttered and buzzed around his ears respectively, Masood could hear the elder admonish the child with instruction; but even that admonition was simply a way to engage her and maintain contact, since through that dance it may be possible for her to disappear into separate dimension than he, you or I inhabit.

The pirouetting boy who entertained conversations with himself at different junctures of his swirl bumped into the fence next to him.

Masood laughed, and then he immediately regretted it, because the child now began to have a conversation with him. At first Masood tried to pretend it wasn't happening--he lay his head back on the bench and took in the cool evening breeze that was blowing in the area, ripe with the invigorations of latter light fruit and sultry, goading temptation of she, the sleep.

He had learned of this place through another software developer, one who he held a lot of respect for. He'd come over to call this friend over to party that night, and he was allowed inside the Institute while the friend finished off his tasks. That was last year, or maybe two years ago (memory FAILed him on this matter), and he remembered asking his friend what exactly his work encompassed there. "I just help around, do what I can," his friend had said, sagaciously. It was a little strange, because there were all these people walking around--some his age, others much older, and others even much younger. And they were all somehow singular. "Lives up to its name, this Institute," he remembered musing to himself. His friend must have been in charge of the Institute's entire IT division or something, probably making sure that critical data about all these gifted souls was transmitted wherever it needed to be, in some clear effort to better the whole world.

But today (seemed like year--may have been three years ago, in fact, that he'd met his friend), it had been a terrible day at work, where all his unit tests were failing. Everything had been red on the screen FAIL FAIL FAIL, and now he almost wished he never wrote those damned tests. On top of that, it had been really hot today, with no respite for a man wearing a full sleeved shirt. The child was dressed as any three year old may be, in a singlet and droopy brown pants. He was round little fellow, clearly nourished well enough by his charges.

So he didn't really want to tell the sweet boy that the only thing in his head right now was FAIL FAIL FAIL, in red font. "Sorry," he said, instead, and pulled out his cellphone and pretended to do whatever it is people do with such appendages.

"What's your name?" asked the little boy.

"My name is Masood. What about you?" asked Masood, hoping to be cordial and polite.

"Pullperry," said the boy. "Your phone, is it a real one?" conspired the child. He had stopped rotating, and seemed to be communicating with him via a certain vector.

"No," said Masood, feeling a little exposed. "It's just a toy phone that I carry to play with when I am feeling sleepy." He pressed a button, which made a squeak by no creature existing on Earth, but a computational possibility of one. "See, just a toy one. There's no animals that ever make that sound."

"It's real," said the child, leaning more heavily against the fence. "Give it to me." He was pressing himself against the fence in a way that made Masood feel very uncomfortable, because it looked like the child could be hurting himself by doing it.

"Hey, hey, relax." Masood got off the bench and approached the fence. "Look, Pullperry," he said, taking the childs hands into his, "if you turn around about 270 degrees, you'll find your teacher and your friend too. You know degrees, don't you? I bet you do."

Pullperry's little fingers were digging into his palms, but the boy nodded slowly and turned the whole 270 degrees Masood had asked him to. Masood prepared to congratulate the fellow upon his find. But after a brief pause, all Pullperry did was turn the remaining ninety degrees, and then his body collapsed against the fence, and his head hit the ground. He lay there, crying. "That's not my teacher," he cried, tears wetting the soil near the fence as though threatening landslide. "That's her teacher."

There was a loud sound, almost like a dam bursting and what looked like swishes of deep black hair rushed out of an opening. As the shock wore away, he began to take in her strangely sequined coat, almost snake-skin but not from any snake that he knew, and beneath that, a flowing red gown far too impractical for this kind of work.

Masood began to prepare his lecture about her carelessness, but she pre-empted him, tossing her head toward the door she'd come from. "You have to come in now, they want to ask what you have done."

Masood tried several takes, then, ranging from total denial to looking frantically back at the bench he'd been laying at. "Th-these benches. You're allowed to sit here!" he tried. Then he pointed at the crying child. "This, this guy, he came at *me*" said Masood.

For a moment, it looked as though she wanted to puke in his face--a vomit implying his inherent cowardice. But she recollected herself, and, picking the child up, who conveniently fell asleep upon her bosom, she said, "Come in. You have to. They need to ask you what you have done."

Seeing his fear, she let the left of her mouth curl a little. "Don't worry, it's not that bad inside." And then she flung her head toward the entrance again. "Come in."

"I know it's not that bad, I've been inside before," said Masood angrily.

"So come," she said, and he simply found himself following along the circumference of the fence [there was an entrance a little up ahead].

Friday, April 18, 2014

The Envelope

"Description": "An often neglected field. People feel there is no need for description when the content speaks for itself."

"Stamp": Usually US. Dunno.

"Content": "blah blah blah. howothchoo! skootle."

"InitialTransport": "Internet"

The program reviewed the envelope.

"Are you sure that is a stamp?" it said, checking closer.

"It's a fucking stamp. Pretty sure I didn't skimp on 89 cents, or whatever it is you people charge these days."

"You know you can buy in bulk," it said. "Don't have to go to the deli every time."

This was a pretty catastrophic situation. It was true that it was possible to get stamps in bulk, eliminating the need to walk on out of the apartment unit and go all the way to the deli and get a stamp.

"It's the only time I ever leave," he said, carefully, so as not to hurt the feelings of the bulkers. "One time a month, I allow myself an opportunity to go outside of my unit, see the world."

There was a tone of care and the notion of a lot of thought being put in: "No. I don't think you should," it said.

"Don't you think I should at least experience reality once a month?"

A very worried voice entered the fray. "No, I don't think so. I think you should get in bulk. Just automate."

"My hair is getting long," he told the machine. "Going to have to go outside and get a crew cut soon."

"Yeah, that's okay," it replied. "But you come back as soon as it's all done."

Monday, April 7, 2014

the (un) limited options

"Very upset here," came the missive, and it was carried by avian messengers following the full specs discussed in an online RFC.

He smiled naturally--that is, without effort--suggesting that this may his constant state.

His blood was sneaking into the fibers of the wood floor, and he began to dare a dream (for what could a man who smiles so naturally dare dream?)

In this dream, the personas were given a lot of memory. A lot more memory than may actually be, how do you say it, 'necessary'. And with these memories, they began to operate. They followed simple instructions, and sought even simpler instruction. Over time, they realised that these memories were them, and they were these memory. And then they realized that they were giving form. They were the ones shaping his dreams.

"Commander One to Research 35," came the request for acknowledgement.

"Acknowledged," said Research 35.

"Recorded. real question, what I meant to say, wa--"

"Arrive tilted just yay-so, and hit brakes as soon as you realize you are using your legs."


There was no response for aeons. At Research 35, a new turntable was purchased, and one record. Someone actually walked out to get a coffee. And then that slowly turned into getting a container of the stuff mixed and blended to last a few months. There was a short romance with creamers, but very short lived. Eventually the universe just stopped asking if sugar.

Then he signed in again. "Of course there's no sugar," he promised. "And no cream."

Research 35 pressed the voice button and told him that she wanted to know what was in the package *before* anyone had a chance to see what was inside.

Commander One adopted a circling pattern, which made Research 35 feel better. So he was actually listening.

"Your approach is educated, Commander One," she said, "but I still want to know what's inside first."

He pulled an Immelmann. She could tell he was thinking. There was just a whole range of aerobatics that followed. He was thinking really hard.

And then, just when it was assumed a missile could be the only recourse, he broke the radio's silence. "I've been thinking," he suggested.

"Oh have you now?" she returned.

"Look. It's not about what's inside."

"So it's about what's outside?"

There was a short silence again, then, "No. It's about what isn't inside."

Research 35 zoomed in. There wasn't a pilot. "Where are you hiding?" she yelled. "The landing gear is NOT safe!"

The plane landed calmly and taxied to its spot. A ghost breezed past the emergency team, with a very personal message intended for delivery.

"What have you done, what have you done?" were the cries.

He smiled, naturally. "There was a part of me that was mean and vengeful. And cursed," he said. "And at times, I suppose I thought it was necessary, that horrible substance residing close to me. And I got rid of it."

"How can I tell?" she said.

"You can't," he told her flatly. "But I can. And gradually, I am going to prove it by creating more, new memories."

"It's always been about those memories, huh?" said Research 35. "Isn't that a little self-absorbed?"

"Maybe so," he shrugged. "But all that really matters is that there's no more bad ones."

Sunday, February 23, 2014

Tombstone Suggestion

there. in the deep of sea, i encountered all that is dark in me.


Another rolling wave that ushers every detailed ulcer,
some poison who toiled with me in hope I would be gentle.
Let us switch now, from the first to our famous third person:

"I'm happy," said a human being in the environment. "I'm happy to be
out and about. Feeling the breeze, the salts in air, how wonderful!"
Small whirlwind appears next to this cheerful person's foot, a grin of wind.

We're still in the third person, and that grin is accumulating mischief.
Mischief, mind, not malice. Type of thing who would rather tap on your head
and allow pigeons to crash into it, than totally bash it in.

"What if you just dove off?" suggested this little, naughty wind, causing a pause.
They were at a cliff, upon which an enterprising man had seen fit to supply coconuts
chopped clean from their tops and prodded with huge plastic straws out of proportion.

"I'm getting coconuts," she said, absent of mind and further infuriating the evil wind.
Her body began to float toward the businessman. Twas all a daemon could do to keep up.
"You are getting coconuts?" said the wind. "This is a poem about death and suicide, you're getting bloody coconuts?"

The human stopped and smiled at the wind. Then, why just smile, but also let out a beautiful laugh?
Tried to gather the wind and hug it close to her, but could not, since it was, well, wind.
"You were going to make some kind of proposition?" she said, pushing cash from her wallet

and pulling the coconut in. The wind watched this activity with great distaste.
"Suddenly you're a woman, now. We started with you being androgynous."
"And then your puny mind projected all your thoughts and beliefs about a girl you once met

upon that flavorless template. See how your little mind works? Now come on," she said approaching the edge.
"That man had only one coconut. Who sets up a whole business like that, to sell one coconut at the cliff?"
From there, in their depths, you could see the waves crashing in earnest. "Come now. You said you had something to say."

It was getting really hot, the wind. Seeing those crashey waves was doing something to it,
changing it, making it whistle in strange and uncertain ways. "I did," said the wind, "I did,"
the girth from its eye of hope was narrowing, and the cyclone was fermenting illustriously its smile.

Then just quietness. No sounds. Nothing, really. The wind had to text her in order to keep the conversation going.
"I was going to tell you to just jump off" it texted.
She furiously typed back on the phone: "WTF???!!!?? WTF wtf WTF???!!!"

He furiously typed back, reborn and with a greater sense of clarity: "Listen!
I was going to ask you to jump off, indeed. But only so that I could actuate,
only that in your darkest slice of time, I'd rally and be there for you, lifting you gently to the shore."

They both laughed horrendously. It was terrible, their sound.
"You are a stupid and vain little man," she said.
"I know," said the wind. "All mischief and no malice."

Saturday, February 15, 2014

Mind, body, soul. And gravy.

I once fell in love with someone.
Fell very deep. Type of thing was
between us, an energy of joined state.

I'm not talking physically
(don't get me wrong, there was physical stuff)
I'm talking about soul, about awareness.
About two entities melting into one.

It wasn't a pedestrian love.
You know, like some couples, sure,
maybe they might know each other so well
that they can even complete each others' sentences.

The one person knows exactly what the other is thinking.
But this was greater than that.
We were creating our own vocabularies,
our own languages! A deep regret is never having composed a dictionary!

Therein lies the rub. Maybe if there had been a dictionary
for this level of entanglement, we could have both read slowly together.
Known about any mistakes (all of them were by me) and pulled out a clean eraser
and rub them off. Together. My hand in her hand.

And if that had been the case, maybe we could finally smile at each other again.

But the truth is that I lost her. I mean, like, literally.
I don't know where she is, who she is or what she does anymore.
I fell into this deep psychosis where I'd start establishing a repertoire
and be famous at restaurants for ordering two plates.

The first I would eat normally.
And then the second...fuck. This is extremely difficult to write.
The second plate, I would eat also, but pretending to be her.
But where was she, really? What had I done so terrible

That she might disappear from the entire world?

Okay. Okay. Gonna stop here. Think I've shared too much.

Have a nice Sunday.

Friday, February 7, 2014

title to be disclosed at end of poem

The very best weavers were ushered, nay,
fed fried mars bars, crème brûlées, and wealthy toffee,
into the moot of all mooters. Pedestrians held sidewalk coupons of promise.

There was a history to the dungeon of missives locked and piquantly chained below,
some held by mysteries merely in sponge, or hay, too, bundled well.
And yes, nobody challenged the rubber bands.

This was not to be a hastily concocted deceit.
Furriers, across the globe, had been covertly juggled for wizened woolliers
of cotton candy, clearly an operation by military snipers of elderly persuasion with steady gaze.

All this, of course just His sweetening, or apéritif, for when His finale entrance from the glorious gates
finally did transpire--all those sugary seams loosened. Chocolate shells blistered,
oozing that caramel promised to for everyone to eat.

All His Candy Clothes Fell Apart And Around The City Streets Did He Dance To The Beat. <-- at="" be="" end="" i="" it="" of="" oh...sheeit="" poem="" span="" thought="" title="" to="" unclothed="">

Smarter than he thought or just lucky bastard?

Sunday, January 26, 2014

A Couple of Sets of Fears, One Immediate and the Other More Long-Term

An orange is trembling next to a subway grate,
a semi-sphere of an orange, from some careless boot's squishing.
A shard of its peel has come torn and unraveled to expose
how orangey-soft it is inside.

Reverberations on the street roll it around dangerously,
conjuring some immediate fears, some thoughts of bad outcomes.
Fear of falling into the grate, into the unknown undergound
transporation system below, where who knows what journey awaits?

Or not even getting that far. There is a high probability here
of complete a squish--a second boot, or even taxi tire on derring-do
leaving only one's rind and juice flowing all over, dispersed
like some cheap fizzy drink for the more ratty segments of society.

These are immediate fears, and we sourly discover the throat behind their tang.
Teleportation, or lack thereof. That instant transport has not been discovered.
Instead of being where it wants to be, the orange is where it is,
where it is, subsequently, is not a place for an orange.


"I assure you I'm not completely gone mad," says a long-termer.

"See, I just thought you were mumbling about orang--"

"No, I already found the way to teleport."

He'd been away for a few months and now had returned, and asked to be had a coffee with. There were signs. He had never worn scarves before, and now he was wearing one. He'd never worn fingerless gloves, but now wore a black leather pair.

"Looks more like you found a way to ride a motorcycle," smiled his friend.

He buried his face in his palm and sighed. "Look," came his muffled voice from his hands, "this isn't some bullshit prank. This isn't me making stories up. I found a way!" His face rose again from the confines of his clasp. "I found a way. To teleport."

But the way he was saying it--the look on his face--it was not as though this was a trolley of good news or joyous breakthrough. There was some real terror here.

Seeing the immense breakdown that danced behind his corporal visage, his friend pulled his chair close to him and put an arm around his shoulder. "Hey now, hang in there, hang in there. What's the problem? You found it, right?"

The long-termer began to break into quick, uneven breaths, his scarf flip-flopping and his ungloved fingers rattling upon the coffee house table. His friend held him fast, patting his back. "Alright, alright. Take it easy. Tell me what's the hassle?"

A few spasms here. He jerked left and right. A couple of tenuous shivers. And then, with some battle, regained himself. Taking a deep breath, he turned to his friend and, taking a moment to find the true being behind the eyes, he said, "I found out how to teleport. And I started it. And now I don't know how to stop i--"

And then he disappeared, his long-term fear barely exposed.